I Only Have One
by multuspanis
Summary: Sherlock gets drunk and tell John a story about himself, Mycroft and a boy who looks like a horse when they were children. I just have this headcanon where Sherlock and Mycroft were close when they were younger. I'm not even sorry. Partly. Anyway, rated M because of one nasty word. :D


**Please excuse my grammatical errors and spelling mistakes and typos in general. I tend to get lazy when re-reading my stories and I don't always notice the problems. If a sentence doesn't make sense, please don't kill me. Please enjoy, because this is my first uploaded fic. Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. :)**

**EDIT: FJKASHDJKASL HOLY FLYING FUCKBALL I LEFT ONE PART IN I FORGOT TO EDIT IT OUT OH GOD KILL ME**

By now, Dr John Watson was far more than used to Sherlock and his violin. He had grown accustomed to the playing for the hours upon end, he didn't mind. Sometimes, it was quite soothing to hear Sherlock play and think. There was something about the way the music and the notes flowed and jumped together at exactly the right moments, which made sure you were aware that Sherlock's fantastic mind was chugging along, faster than everyone else's, compiling information, making connections and arriving at a conclusion. It was quite… Fascinating, if you watched for long enough.

That is, of course when it wasn't at 3 in the _bloody _morning on a Saturday when everyone else was asleep. John could've been sleeping, but no, quite the opposite. He was wide awake, slouched at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of wine (the only drinkable beverage left in the apartment which wouldn't kill him if he drank it. He made a mental note to convince Sherlock to go the shops later in the day), listening to that blasted detective play his violin.

Sherlock slid right down the fingerboard, the noise tearing at John's ear, who winced noticeably, but Sherlock was facing the window, gazing out into London.

Just before John could even begin to think about punching Sherlock in his stupid face and cutting his hand on those stupid cheekbones, the man in question played another excruciatingly high note. John slammed down his drink loudly and opened his mouth, "Sherlock, if you-"

"John, what did I tell you about interrupting me whilst I'm playing?"

"You told me an awful lot about concentration and the human mind, so I chose to ignore it. For Christ's sake, put down that damn instrument and act like a normal human for once. Now, that's an experiment I'd like to see."

Sherlock eyed John, skeptically, "Are you telling me that drinking alcohol at 3 o'clock in the morning is considered normal?"

"When you have the world's only Consulting Detective as you flatmate, yeah, I'd say so," John muttered, nearly putting his hand in a jam jar full of human fingernails. "Wait, didn't I buy that jam a week ago? Where did the rest of go so quickly?"

Placing down his violin on the chair, Sherlock chose to ignore that question and sit across the table from John. He ran his eyes over John and the bottle of wine.

"What are you thinking?" John asked, trying to follow Sherlock's train of thought, in vain.

Once again, there was no verbal reply, Sherlock only watched his friend take another sip.

John had no idea what was going on, but then again, with Sherlock, he never did. Instead, he poured another glass and placed it in front of Sherlock, "Here, drink."

The drink sloshed slightly, as John pushed it a little harder than needed towards Sherlock. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, wishing for sleep, but unable to reach it.

"Did you not have a pleasant sleep, John?" Sherlock asked, peering over the rim of his glass.

"Not with you playing, I don't anyone could."

"I think you know what I mean…"

John knew, alright. How Sherlock did, he cared not to think about.

Occasionally, John would relapse into dreams about the war. Seeing one of your closest mates have him head blown off isn't something a man forgets easily, certainly if he felt the blood and flesh on the tips of his fingers and he held his once-friend, watching as all the life left him.

John never knew what prompted these nightmares, maybe it was his constant examining of dead bodies, often brutally torn apart, though somehow he doubted it. Gore didn't affect John Watson.

Besides, what mattered was that John had had another nightmare before being unable to go back to sleep and had dragged himself out of bed to drown himself in some alcohol.

With a heavy sigh, John said, "No, not a pleasant sleep."

Sherlock hummed, almost sympathetically and took a giant gulp of his drink, almost draining it completely.

"You'll get drunk if you continue like that, Sherlock."

"Everyone has been to war in their own way, John. Did it not occur to you, that though I am a "freak" as Donovan likes to call me, I have too?" He didn't' mean it in a berating way, which slightly surprised John. Of course it had occurred to him, Sherlock may be stony face 98% of the time, but he was bound to feel something. They all deserved to numb whatever pain they felt with something once in a while. With a nod, John refilled Sherlock's glass, "I suppose so."

Which was how., almost half an hour later, Sherlock ended up quite drunk. He was resting his head on his hand, telling John about the history of their kitchen table. He was speaking quickly, but slightly slurring his words.

"… Look, John, look at this mark.. Markon the table, it's probably been previously owned by a smoker, so many cigarette burnson the table…. And now I don't smoke now because Mycroft told me not too, and so did… You."

John, who wasn't quite as bad as Sherlock grinned slightly, the froze. He had always been quite… Curious about Sherlock and his relationship with his brother. They were stiff around each other, but had it always been like that?

Sherlock was muttering away under his breath, but the army doctor cut him off, "Sherlock, what happened with you and Mycroft?"

There was a pregnant pause, then Sherlock started to laugh. He looked up at John and sighed quite deeply, "Y'know.. Johnn, me and Mycroft. Mycroft and me.. We didn't always not get along… We actually.. Could stand each other's presence. He actually… Taught me.. Lots of things, important things. Mycroft may be a controlling bastard, but he's not a socio-path He tried to show me how to not be an arse. There was this one time…."

"Sherlock, darling, can you open the door for Mycroft, please?" Mrs Holmes' voice drifted up to Sherlock's ears. The 7 year old was sitting on the floor of his father's study, sorting mud into different categories. He struggled to his feet and hurried downstairs, because surprisingly enough, at this time, Sherlock was always very pleased to see his big brother come home.

Mycroft often stayed at school a little late to study, because as a 14 year old, he was fast approaching his far more serious exams for school, and he was adamant to pass each and every one. At first, this annoyed Sherlock. This meant that he didn't have as much time to spend with Mycroft, who was almost the only one who would talk to him. Everyone else at school tended to steer clear of the youngest of Holmes brothers (while Mycroft was already getting recognized for his academic achievement. Sherlock wasn't the only intelligent one in the family, Mycroft simply focussed his mind on far different matters) and a decent conversation was quite hard to come by.

Sherlock threw open the door, already nattering away, "Mycroft, today I've decided that I'm going to name my pirate ship the-" He faltered as his gaze wandered from his brother's smiling face to a tall and slim blonde, whose face quite forcefully reminded Sherlock of a horse.

"Afternoon, Sherlock. I'd like you to meet my new friend, Percival," Mycroft gestured to the blonde, who waved to Mycroft's brother, grinning widely.

How could this be? Sherlock was quite affronted, Mycroft couldn't have a friend! He was supposed to be friends with Sherlock only, or else he wouldn't have anyone to read pirate stories to him. He stood in the door way still, glaring up at Mycroft who raised both his eyebrows, "Sherlock, please. It's cold out and Percival and I have important things to do. "

Sherlock didn't move and still stood, defiantly, small hand gripping the side of the door. Percival laughed weakly.

Mycroft sighed deeply, "MUMMY!"

A few moments later, the sound of heels tapping on the marble floor could be heard rapidly approaching. Mrs Holmes assessed the situation, looked at Mycroft who gave her a meaningful look and shook her head. She bent down and lifted Sherlock up from underneath his arms, "Oh, let the boys in, dear. It's freezing outside."

Sherlock squirmed for only a moment before admitting defeat and letting himself go limp in his mother's arms. He scowled to himself as Mrs Holmes closed the front door after Mycroft and Percival had entered and carried him to the kitchen. He was set down on the table top, where he crossed his arms huffily. Mycroft went upstairs with his friend, talking about something unimportant and dull, where they spent the rest of the afternoon, locked up in his bedroom.

Mycroft was a _traitor, _Sherlock though as he sailed his ship towards the docks. Now Sherlock had no one to play with and he was bored! Mycroft was busy with his friend, they probably weren't even doing anything interesting.

Then, however, Sherlock was hit with a realization. Surely, Mycroft will tire of doing adult things and get bored of _Percival _and return to play with Sherlock.

Normally, Mycroft kept acquaintances, but he never really had any close friends. This was partly the result of their father drilling into their heads that politics and business was a hard world and friends will only hold you back. Mycroft was so intent on getting into politics, he strutted around the house sometimes talking about his position in the British Government which he was bound to have later in life. However, he was quite modest and said that it was only a "minor" one, nothing to make a big deal out of. So, of course, he listened to his father's advice. He kept close only to his family and hardly ever brought anyone over to play.

Sherlock nodded to himself and smiled, he didn't have to worry because Mycroft wasn't really friends with Percival.

He was still telling himself that 5 weeks later, after Percival had arrived at their doorstep with Mycroft nearly every single day. However, when Mycroft informed their mother that Percival would be attending his birthday party which normally only great aunts and uncles came to, Sherlock knew that he really did have a friend. And he was particularly happy about it.

He had to have a plan, if Percival wasn't going to leave on his own terms and if Mycroft wasn't telling him to leave then Sherlock had to do something about it.

Later at night, he lay in his bed, eyes wide open as he though about what he had to do. Percival had a blind spot on his right eye, Sherlock knew because he once saw a moth fly directly at him from that angle and Percival didn't even realize until it had landed on his face. He screamed. Sherlock found it very amusing indeed.

"Mycroft, look at this!" Sherlock thrust an umbrella into his brother's face.

His brother groaned and stood up, "Sherlock give that back!"

They were in the living room, eating slices of cake that Mrs Holmes had been given by a friend. It was a rich, dark chocolate and Sherlock didn't want any, but he accepted a plate because he needed it to carry out his master plan.

Dancing out of reach, Sherlock swung the umbrella around haphazardly. "Sherlock, stop it!," Mycroft hissed, "If you break anything, Father will kill you!" He lunged forward, trying to grab Sherlock by the collar to stop him.

Sherlock ducked under his arm, grabbed his plate of cake, while Percival was looking into the fire, dutifully, and threw it at him. It was a risk, because the cake was a little large, and Percival wasn't a blind old man with no reflexes, but his blind spot did debilitate him partially. Percival attempted to duck, a few split seconds too late and was hit on the side of the face with a slice of chocolate cake, icing spread over his cheek and in his hair. Sherlock had to restrain a giggle as Mycroft growled, "Sherlock! What do you think you're doing?!"

"Nothing, Mycroft."

Percival raised his hand up to his face and swiped off the chocolate. Mycroft glanced over at him, "Aw, mate, listen, I'm really sorry about what my little brother has done, the bathroom's second door on the left down the hall…" The blonde nodded and grinning weakly before standing up.

As soon as he was out of ear shot, Mycroft turned his eyes back to Sherlock, "What the _hell _was that?!"

"No profanities, Mycroft!" Sherlock called before darting off, up the stairs, giggling madly.

After that incident, Mycroft made sure that Sherlock didn't eat with him and Percival again, but still Percival kept coming over. What did Sherlock have to do to get rid of the guy? Once again, he found himself staring at the ceiling coming up with a new plan for Percival's downfall.

Three days before Mycroft's birthday celebrations, Sherlock crept down the stairs with a jar in his hand. He peered through the glass just as his father strode by, "Sherlock, what are you doing, son?"

"It's a present for Mycroft, father," Sherlock smiled sweetly before concealing the jar under his arm again. Mr Holmes chuckled and patted his son on the head before heading towards his study.

In actuality, the jar was filled with an assortment of dead insects that Sherlock had collected. His mother (and his nanny) had found the jar horrific and ordered Sherlock to rid of it, but he only hid it in the very corners of his wardrobe. He kept it because sometimes, as you do, he felt the need to dissect a couple of large bugs, just so he could remember what their insides looked like. However, for this experiment, a few could be spared.

Mycroft was at the dining table with Percival. They had papers spread over the table and Mycroft was reciting some sort of tune as a method of remembering. Sherlock scoffed inwardly. That was such a pathetic way to remember things, it was much easier if you navigated your way around your brain as if it were a building, but that's beside the point. The point is, the two teenagers had sandwiches at their sides, as it was lunch time. Percival was distracted and Sherlock was short enough to not be seen. He unscrewed the lid to his jar, scooped out a couple of choice beetles, lifted the top layer of bread on Percival's sandwich and dropped them on top of the lettuce. For good measure, he tied Percival's shoelaces together.

Sherlock was quite surprised with himself, because really, he had never been much of a prankster himself. In fact, he didn't really call what he was doing pranking, more like.. Necessary actions. The idea of pranking in general was just all a bit stupid. You do something shocking and/or embarrassing to someone to make a fool out them or to make them feel bad. It was a bit pointless and energy wasting when all you had to do was outsmart them in a conversation and they'll instantly feel bad about their level of intellect. Sherlock knew this because he had already done so to many people on countless occasions. It was very funny to watch them, (many times it had been grown adults) fluster their words and try to find a comeback.

Only a few minutes of waiting had to be done, so Sherlock paced around in front of the stairs, listing off the Periodic Table in his head. Soon enough, however, there was a very loud yell and violent coughing was heard from the dining room. Sherlock smiled to himself and ran up the stairs, pleased with the pay off. That would be enough to make anyone never want to see a person again.

As it turned out, Sherlock was, again, proved wrong. Percival still made regular visits, though from then on he always seemed rather guarded and irritable whenever Sherlock entered the room. And Sherlock was becoming increasingly agitated. What was so important about Percival that made Mycroft want to be in his company so often? It was frustrating not knowing why, and what was worse, he didn't have Mycroft to discuss the issue with, like he normally would. Sherlock tried for weeks, trying to get Percival to give up on Mycroft and never come back, yet no matter how hard he tried (and he really did try. Percival returned to his house one evening bleeding heavily from the face from a cat scratch) Mycroft and Percival still remained friends.

His mother and father were also affected. Sherlock was moodier than ever and would spend hours in his room without ever coming down for food. Mrs Holmes simply couldn't understand what was occupying Sherlock so terribly, even though by now, she was used to his actions. He stomped around the house, arms crossed, deep in thought.

Then, finally, one day in the middle of the summer holidays, Mrs Holmes told Mycroft and Percival to go and get some fresh air, and she sent Sherlock along with them. Percival scowled and stayed on Mycroft's other side while Sherlock, struggling to keep up with their larger steps, talked to his brother about what he found in their aunt's garden a few days ago.

"… And there was a box of clothes for men which were too big for Uncle Jeremy and clothes for women which would fit Aunt Mabel but she would never wear them. They were so short and-"

Mycroft winced inwardly, not really wanting to find out about his aunt's affair through his little brother, "Sherlock, I think maybe you should keep your nose out your aunt's business for now."

They had reached the local park, where Sherlock often got him samples of mud and bugs from. He instantly split off from Mycroft and Percival to explore around some trees which had dropped some bark onto the ground. Mycroft grinned sheepishly at Percival, "I'm pretty sure he'll leave us alone. There's always interesting things down here."

They sat down at a park bench in front of a shallow duck pond which didn't actually have any ducks. Just frogs. Sherlock peered out from behind the tree he was playing at and narrowed his eyes at Percival's blonde head. All he had to do was push him into the pond, and that should be enough to make him never want to come over again. He got down onto his knees and began to crawl towards the park bench.

The last couple of days had been damp and miserable, raining almost constantly. Today was clearer, yet still chilly and the wet mud and sludge in the ground hadn't dried up yet. Sherlock let out a yelp about half a meter from the bench his brother was sitting on, when his knee sunk into a deep hole, probably dug by a dog, that had been filled with sludge from the raining. His hand twisted underneath him as he fell face first into the ground.

Mycroft spun around, hearing Sherlock cry out and he jumped to his feet, "Sherlock!"

The boy was struggling upright, mud caked on his face, a pout forming. As Mycroft ran over to see if he was alright, Percival felt that if he just sat on the bench while someone (even if it was Sherlock) was potentially hurt was a little more than rude so he followed Mycroft's suit and came up behind him.

Sherlock looked up past Mycroft's shoulder to Percival, who had come up to see what was wrong, even though he was looking out towards the pond. He half-turned his body and used his shoulder to push at Mycroft, who was caught by surprise by Sherlock's sudden attack and fell back, throwing his hands out to catch his fall Percival was only a foot away from Mycroft and was shoved by him, unceremoniously forward. His arms flapped wildly, but he was unable to regain his balance and toppled into the cold water of the pond, which was also incredibly filthy, which was probably why there were no ducks.

Mycroft , torn between helping out his friend and his brother, looked frantically between the two. He decided that his friend would just have to wait, but called, "I'm really sorry, Percy!"

He bent down over Sherlock, who was clutching at his wrist, "Sherlock, are you alright? What were you doing? Why did you push me?"

Before Sherlock could answer, Percival had pulled himself out of the pond and was standing in front of the Holmes brothers, dripping and having an uncanny resemblance to some sort of grotesque seaweed monster. He spat out a mouthful of greenish water and said, "What the fuck, Mycroft?! I mean, your brother trying to kill me is one thing, but I didn't think you were in on it too! What the hell is wrong with the two of you?"

He wiped his sopping hair out of his face and stomped off out of the park, probably on his way home. Sherlock watched him go, knowing that he was going to catch a cold by the time he did arrive. Then his attention was brought back to Mycroft who was glaring at him, "What didn't you like about Percival?"

"It wasn't Percival himself.. It was just his… Presence.," Sherlock admitted, grinning at Mycroft. He didn't get smile in return.

"He didn't do anything to you, Sherlock, are you trying to ruin all of my chances at having an actual friend?"

"Well, I don't want you to have friends, Mycroft! Then I won't have any friends!" Sherlock furrowed his brow and looked away.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, "Sherlock… It's not like I didn't play with you any more. After Percy went home, I did."

"But you didn't play with me _all _the time. Why can't you just stay my friend? I though you listened to father when he told us that too many close friends will be hard to work with!"

"Listen, he didn't mean completely detach yourself from all human contact," Mycroft began wiping the mud off of Sherlock's face with his hand, "You don't need lots of friends, Sherlock. If you have one really good friend, that's fine."

Sherlock sniffed, looking up at Mycroft again, "What about Percival?"

"I'm sure he'll come around. He's probably just a little annoyed that you kept doing horrible things to him."

"I only wanted him to leave so you would play with me."

"Of course."

Mycroft pulled his brother up and ruffled his hair, "Come on, Mummy will fix up your hand, good as new."

John laughed, almost out of disbelief, "Are you serious? _Mycroft _told you that you only need one friend? Unbelievable, I though it was just your messed up philosophy."

A faint, grey light was coming in through the window of 221B and Sherlock had sobered up, partly. They could hear Mrs Hudson bustling about downstairs, she could never really sleep for long. John stood up and stretched, heading over to the kettle, "Well, Sherlock. I have to say, I'm quite surprised. I never really considered the fact that you were a child once, I just always assumed you crawled out from a dark corner of London, already emotionless and aloof."

Sherlock sighed, looking out of the window, "That was a long time ago, now, John. It would be outrageous if I still acted like that, though I can't say the same for the rest of our population. I still see people think at the same level as myself when I was 10."

"Alright, Mr Modest, calm down. Though you and Mycroft, that was unexpected. Never knew you relied on him that much. He still worries about you, Sherlock," John turned to look at Sherlock. He couldn't decide whether Sherlock was deliberately avoiding his gaze or actually lost in thought.

"I don't need Mycroft anymore. I'm not a 7 year old," Sherlock snapped. He stood abruptly and grabbed his coat from the chair, "I'll be back later. I've got somewhere to go."

He left without another word. John rolled his eyes. He'd never seen a more dysfunctional family.


End file.
